


gave it to you years ago

by This_Bloody_Cat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Cards Against Muggles, Dirty Talk, HP: Epilogue Compliant, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Next Generation, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, M/M, Next Generation, POV First Person, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, Past Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Possible Non-Con Involving Whores, Prostitution, Punters & Whores, Quidditch, Switching, quidditch player
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-01-17 17:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12370212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/This_Bloody_Cat/pseuds/This_Bloody_Cat
Summary: James loves his whores. Scorpius would much rather work at Gringotts.





	1. 01.

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling and Warner Brothers. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> To be honest, this has been in the works forever — I had this great idea once, but I thought I'd rather read it than write it. Only, then I wrote bits of it. Bits and pieces. And I kept writing and writing and writing until my ‘great idea’ turned into what it is right now: tiny parts of a full story, which I'm trying to piece together. 
> 
> Betaed by Iwao and tavia. Any mistakes remaining are my own :)

_ I'm going to tell you guys a story.  _

_ It's your usual lovey-dovey romance. It'll make your heart go boom boom: delight, joy and bliss, that's where it'll end. Ah, but there'll be hate as well. Hate coming from certain people whose ideals were quite conservative---backwards, you'll say---and I must shamefully admit that, back then, I was one of them too.  _

_ You, as well as I do, will all see people through shades of truth and lies---lying truths, truthful lies. It's hard to see their children and think they are not necessarily your own enemies; harder, even, because their parents were, and you might have fought a war against their ideals, you certainly  fought against their dreams. How, then, is one supposed to see their children and not think that continuum exists, for as no part of reality can be distinguished from its whole without setting out divisions of our own.  _

_ And most of us didn't.  _

_ So there'll be prejudice, discrimination, and how to transgress, no, beat your fear to a pulp in order to surpass it. Tragic endings that could have been but weren't. There'll be lies, there'll be revenge---yes, there'll be all of that. Broken hearts that were never broken, but they got so, so close to splitting into tiny fractures I could almost see it in my head. _

_ And perhaps somewhere along the way you'll want to stop me. Go, "But how, how, if you knew of their suffering, could you let them go on through such pain?" But, you see, there's an answer to every question, and that one has one too.  _

_ You'll just have to wait to hear it. _

_ But for now, let's go back in time. Let's go back to Albus Severus' nineteenth birthday...   _

 

*** ***

 

"Come on, hurry up! By the time we get there it'll be over," Dianne says. She stands by the bathroom door, her voice a mixture of amusement and disbelief. Disbelief that he's still there, likely. "Look, just let me..."

"No!" James stops fiddling with his tie. He stares at himself in the mirror, a brief moment of aghast contemplation. "I can do this," he says, mostly to convince himself, but his necktie hangs floppily around his neck, the sides twisted and crooked. Even the knot looks wrong somehow, and how, exactly, can a meaningless piece of clothing look all mangled up when he's spent the past half hour trying to wear it properly? 

His mirror image seems to agree with him. It rips the tie off its neck and grimaces before throwing it to the ground, as if it were the most disgusting thing it's touched in all its miserable life. Which, James guesses, must really be rather sad. Stuck behind a glass wall, having to vanish when there's no one there, standing before you.

He sighs. 

In a way it's kind of how he feels, most days. His life is not his own, so he ends up removing the tie and leaving it on the sink table. 

"Always trying to look smart." Dianne smiles, hugging him from behind. "It's just your brother's party, it's not like the  _ Prophet _ 's going to be there, you know?"

And, yeah, he does know that, but... it's just, Dianne looks at him the way she always does. As if he's somehow above her, standing on a brightly lit pillar, and that's wrong because he's not. She looks at him as if she's amazed he's dating her, her and no other out of all the girls that try to jump him when he leaves a Quidditch game, or when he goes out with his friends, or when he's shopping. 

As if she can't believe her luck. 

She kisses his neck, nuzzling it, her fingers already clasping the fabric. "Just let me do it, all right?"

_ Her luck, indeed _ , James thinks, bowing his head,  _ or her lack of it. _ He feels like a bad seed. Makes himself sick every time he looks, really looks at her, because she's part of his lie. And an unwilling part, at that. 

It's not the tie he's mad about---the tie is futile, it's just yet another attempt to impress him. So Scorpius is gay; hell, everyone at Hogwarts knew that ever since the... well, the whole Christmas fiasco. 

And it's not even about the pictures  _ Prophet _ 's reporters might take. He does care about that, but this, here, isn't that. This, here, is more like wishing Scorpius would look his way at least once, so he smiles at her, ashamed. "Yeah," he says. His fingers tingle. Lying, yet again. He clutches his hands---Merlin, he's such a twat. "Okay."

If only she knew.

If only she knew it's not her he wants. Instead, she keeps chattering: "... really rather easy---" she tells him, and then, "---now you tie a pretty knot here and voilà, no, keep looking up, it's nearly done..."

James still wonders sometimes how he ended up like this. Trapped in his own lies. He's a Gryffindor, of course, but his bravery is sorely missing. Some days he thinks perhaps the Sorting Hat pitied him too much to have placed him there and not in Hufflepuff. Then again, he has no clue how the Hat works, perhaps he simply begged too loudly for it to ignore him. When he reaches that point, he has to bite down on the side of his lower lip, shuffling back a roaring laugh that threatens to escape him. 

He always did want to be a leader. 

Besides, Gryffindor is his father's House. There's no shame in wanting to make him proud, is there? But there's certainly nothing a Gryffindor would do in what he's doing these days: keeping a fake girlfriend he doesn't love, and a high-class Muggle escort called Martin he sees on Saturday noon---which is, coincidentally, exactly when Dianne goes visit her aunt at St Mungo's. 

By the time he gets there, he has to resist rolling his eyes. Saturday, still two days away and he's already thinking of it. Indeed, life is great. Great and covered in lies.

"There you go." She beams proudly, smoothing the black tie down his front. It looks terrific, but then James' eyes shift to the side and there's a harsh pang of guilt in the pit of his stomach. 

He ignores it. 

Instead, he turns around. Kisses her lips, smiling. "Ready?" he asks, and when she nods he holds out his arm. As soon as her hand grasps his biceps, he twists and turns. 

For a second there, everything goes black. 

 

*** ***

 

He hears Dianne's breezy voice as she talks to Victoire and his young sister, something about a poverty project Hermione's still working on, having to do with house-elves and such---he's got no idea what it's called, but when they say it it sounds like 'feta.' The cake is half eaten, they've already sang Happy Birthday and, by now, Teddy is halfway through a bottle of Firewhisky he's drinking with James' dad, Ron and Seamus. Hugo and Rose are sitting with them, along with whatever-her-name-is Zabini and Al. 

"You're missing your other half," James yells. Al shakes his head, but he stands and walks down the garden path. 

"And you're a complete dork," he tells James when he's standing by him. "We're just friends, no more, no less. Friends." He pokes James in the side, who jumps a little; the Butterbeer in his pint flutters, almost falling on him. "Get it into your head." 

Silence fills the air in their corner of the back yard. Al sips his drink, glancing back to the wooden outdoor table he'd been sitting on. In the distance, Rose picks up a card and reads it, "I overdosed on Felix Felicis and found---" They must be playing that game Lily kept ranting about, Cards Against Muggles.

"Long time no see, by the way." 

James shrugs. "I've been busy." 

Hugo answers, extremely serious, "---the basilisk in my pants," and then there are laughs all around, even from James' dad, who's trying very hard to look severe and yet the sides of his mouth keep twisting upwards. 

"It gets like that sometimes, especially during competitions and such. It's madness..." James pauses. He bites his lip. He kind of wants to ask Al where Scorpius is, but he's not sure he should--- _ could _ . It might make Al think he's bent, or that James has a  _ crush  _ on him or something. He doesn't want that. Al always knows much more than he shows. "And the Falcons have hired a new Beater, too," he goes on, "Will. He's rather useless, I've had to put in extra hours to teach him to play."

"Funny." Al grins. "You're all busy."

"Hmm?" 

"I must be the black sheep." He chuckles. "That's what Scorp said---" Al's voice slides up into his imitation tone, "---I'm so, so sorry, Al. I'll be working until late..." 

"Really?" James snorts. "Didn't know he had a job."

"Something in the Muggle world." Albus' shoulder hitches under his t-shirt; up, then down. A careless shrug. "Something to do with banking, I think? He was always a bloody know-it-all when it came to Arithmancy..." 

James nods, casually. It's nice they're talking about this. It's nice that it's come out of Al and all. Some questions are better unasked. 

"He'll drop by once he's free, anyway," Al tells him between sips. "We might go have a drink somewhere, perhaps to that new bar Luna opened." He stops, staring fixedly at James. "Wanna come with us? To our little party, tonight. You can bring your girlfriend, if you want to. She's pretty cool. Bit of a brainy one, indeed, like aunt Herm..."

James almost starts laughing at the potential skewed choices he'd get having both his girlfriend and Scorpius in the same place, but he falls silent. It's just... it's not a good idea. Dianne might be blind in most cases, but if she sees him standing next to his teenage crush, mouth shut tight as a trap as usual, she might catch on to something. Inhale the gayness out of James, who knows, so he grimaces an apology instead, "Don't think so. I'm rather---"

"---busy, yes, or tired, or who knows what," Al says, waving it off; it makes James think perhaps he was hoping for a different answer. "As usual."

"Well... extra hours and---"

"Whatever, James. It's what you say whenever I ask," Al snaps, breaking into James' explanation. "You know what? I stopped caring a long time ago." 

But somehow not caring doesn't keep him from asking. "It's not what you---"

"James---" Al shakes his head, "---shut up. Here, could you hold this for me? Just a second, I wanna..." And somehow, James ends up holding his Butterbeer along with Al's almost empty one, while Al fishes out filters, smoking paper and a pouch of rolling tobacco from his back pocket. It's laughable, really, because James looks away too late. He knows he's been staring at Al's hands, and Al notices and, in one way or another, that small gesture makes him feel compelled to offer James' the fag he's just rolled which is...  

James shakes his head, quickly. "No, thanks." 

"You quit, again?" Al asks, raising his eyebrows.

"Not good for my physical fitness." And he's not lying, not really, but he's close. With the huge spiral of irrelevance he's been shrunk into, with everything going on in his life lately, he does for a moment feel like saying  _ Yes. Yes, please, give me one _ , but he doesn't. Huh. 

Watch that, self-control. 

Instead, he looks up at the sky. It's a distasteful shade of grey, now. Very different from the sun shining down on roofs when they first got here. It must be getting late---and, certainly, when he look down at his watch, the arrow with his name on it points towards 'irredeemably delayed.' No one seems in a rush to leave though; Dianne's still talking to Victoire, his mother is sitting by the table with Teddy and Rose, looking down at her cards. Al's waving his hand in the air to light his cigarette---James inhales deeply, breathes out slowly. 

So much going on, so little to him. By his side, Al's smoke dissolves into the air, small rivulets of white smog vanishing unhurriedly, and isn't that appropriate? 

"Suit yourself," his brother says. He takes his beer and walks back towards the table, and James feels... lost. Standing on the sidelines. Watching life happen in a way he can't change; worlds move, planets change, yet he stands still. 

By the time he's about to leave, Scorpius finally shows up, walking up the garden path towards Al. He looks astonishing, as usual, wearing a grey polo shirt under his jacket.  _ Same colour as his eyes _ , James thinks. He looks, in fact, so unbelievably stunning that James starts straightening his tie, only he catches himself and stops. 

His hands hang down limp, midair, and he feels something then, the kind of sick feeling you get when you're being stared at. When he looks up again, Scorpius is peering his way, Ray-Bans lifted---and, for fuck's sake, who on Earth wears sunglasses _ at night _ ? 

James swallows. His throat feels dry. Across the backyard, Scorpius eyes him with an oddly cautious expression on his face. 

A moment later, it's gone. Albus' arm covers Scorpius' shoulder, a half-smoked cigarette looking tiny and squeamish between Al's large fingers. Scorpius smiles, tiny wrinkles spread out from the corners of his eyes as he flips his sunglasses down and turns away. He mumbles something into Al's ear, something James' is too far to hear but it seems to make Al giggle, and James' hands start moving again.

"Coming?" Dianne asks. 

James nods. But as he's nodding, he thinks,  _ Perhaps I'll call Gibson tomorrow. _ Ask her if Martin's free, because it's just one time, one day over his usual schedule, and it's not like he can't pay for it or anything. Not with the oodles of cash he's making. All he needs to do is come up with a good excuse. A decent alibi his girlfriend would buy and... and he can do that. 

It's easy enough. 

 

*** ***

 

_ And I know some of you might be thinking, "He didn't. Merlin, he couldn't have---"  _

_ Still, I tell you: aye, he did. But what James didn't know back then was that, doing that, would not exactly stop the voice screaming liar liar, pants on fire in the back of his mind. It's a funny situation, don't you think---why solve problems when you can create even more? But let's go back to the story.  _

_ It was stormy, the following day. Lightning crackled in the darkened sky, thunder clapping as furiously as a merciless Goddess...  _

 

*** ***

 

The rain stops just as James Apparates near the Hilton. He looks around, just in case---bad habits are hard to break---but as usual there's no one there. Apparition points tend to be well hidden; this one in particular is behind a wall, in a phone booth, disillusioned so Muggles can't see it. So no one can see him. 

As he strolls towards the hotel's entrance, he checks his disguise. It's still in place, even his hair is still the darkish grey mop he turned it into. He's always been crap at these kind of spells, the ones that change clothes or modify the human figure. 

He's going to have to get up really early, tomorrow: the Falcons are shooting for  _ Quidditch Weekly _ in the morning. He's still hearing his boss' comments nagging at him.  _ Will does this, Will does that.  _ Will, Will, bloody buggering fuck, always Will. As if it was James' choice to hire him! 

It was not. James had actually tried to warn him against it. 

But, with Will around, it's probably going to be overall one hell of a week for James. Poor sod, Will. He still doesn't know how to regain his position, how to veer slightly on his broom when Beaters in the opposite team try to make him fly too close to the ground.

Once he's in his room, he sends a Patronus to Dianne.  _ Working late tonight, babe. Gonna miss dinner. Sorry! _ Then, he takes out his mobile and stares at the number there. Gibson, he's called it, but it's not; Gibson's just the surname of the woman he talks to when he calls. Calling it London Escorts & Massages felt too filthy, too  _ real _ , and he doesn't want that in his life. Or, rather, he wishes it weren't.

"Good afternoon," says a gravelly female voice at the other end of line, "how may I help you?"

"Is Martin free tonight?" James asks after the initial pleasantries, giving his fake name and such. "I know, it's a pain to ask on such short notice, but since I'm available today, I've been wondering if---"

"Sure," she interrupts him. "Let me just check..." James hears pages turning; back, then forth. "Ah, I'm afraid not," she tells him. Gives him a few seconds to change his mind. "However, if you're willing to hire a new one... I've been checking your preferences, one of our new escorts might match them: short hair, a light blond colour, not too tall, fair skin..."

_ Shame _ , James thinks for a moment. Martin looked so much like Scorpius from behind. Shortish, such a slim waist on him---he was a bit too tanned, but then again, most people are when compared to...  

"He's Russian, though he speaks great English, mind you," Gibson goes on, "you can't even tell he's not from here. His name is Sergei. Extremely well-behaved, indeed, watching him, the way he moves, I sometimes wonder if he comes from the aristocracy over there. Perhaps he just fell on wrong times..."

"All right," James says, because why not? He's already here. He's told his girlfriend he's not going home tonight and, anyway, he likes how Gibson describes him. Besides, if he doesn't look like him at all, all he has to do is not hire him again. "When can I expect him?"

"Oh, he's free until tomorrow evening, we'll send him whenever you want---"

"I'm not hiring the full night," he snaps. "Not dinner or anything, just a couple of hours or so." 

"Of course, of course," she says, placatingly. "Remind me again, where are you staying this week?" And then, once James gives her the address, "He'll be there in an hour."

James stands, throwing his mobile on the bed. He finally lets his disguise fall off. It's no use here. Paparazzi never found him, not when he's staying in one of these Muggle hotels. 

He watches the street, sometimes, but always from behind closed curtains. He changes lodging, from time to time; generally when there's too many of them outside. He might have to get a new one soon, mostly because he's been seeing a few reporters lurking around the place. Three from the  _ Prophet _ , and there was that one time he thought he'd recognised one from  _ The Quibbler. _

But this place, here, is supposed to be his secret. He's safe in here---ever-changing Muggle hotels, one after another until they all look the same---but he's safe. Safe from  _ them _ . He wouldn't want for that to change.

He takes a long shower---best to remove all bits of grass, all the dirt from his skin, best not to look like a careless chump, specially when he's getting a new escort. One that doesn't know him. 

He dresses like a Muggle: trousers and a shirt, though he does leave his pendant on. It's magical, but Muggles would just assume it's a small rounded stone; that's what it looks like, anyway. 

Once he's done, he grabs the book he stole from his girlfriend and settles down on the couch. 

Well, it's just waiting now. He can do that. Except a few minutes later, someone knocks on his door. 

James shouts, "Coming!" as he places his book on the table. He takes one last look around to make sure everything is fine. His Quidditch uniform is hidden in the closet, along with his wand, and that's perfect.  

All in order.

He opens the door and, well, takes in the sight. Perfect skin, all fair and spotless,  _ the  _ perfect mouth, eyes a clear soft grey that make him flush a little when they meet his, because he must have been staring after all. He must have been staring and he didn't even realise he was, but it's just, this escort looks just like, "... Scorpius?"

 

*** ***

 

_ Scorpius smiled, back then.  _

_ Inside, though, he was like a half-painted canvas, an eruption of troubled emotions that, somehow, he managed to cover. _


	2. 02.

An awkward silence fills the hotel hallway, replicated perfectly inside James' mind. The moment stretches until it snaps; his brain suddenly wakes up, burning in a turmoil of uncertainty, scrambled deliberations thoroughly mixed with jumbled thoughts on how this, of all things, could even be possible. James feels as though he's trying to walk past a muddled moor, where nothing at all makes sense. 

He hears Scorpius murmuring, back there, "Sorry, I must have noted the wrong door number," and he's already turning to leave when James' voice jumps through the hoops of embarrassment. He finds himself leaping forward, he hears himself say "wait!" before even thinking it through, but that seems to be enough to make Scorpius pause. 

James knows he might be blushing a little, standing there, one hand reaching out to stop Scorpius that never did touch him---on the other hand though, perhaps he should get used to looking pitiful. Especially when Scorpius is around. He wonders what's the correct thing to say right then. How exactly do you ask your brother's best friend if they're your... well, your whore for the night.

Luckily for him, Scorpius bridges the silence with, "I'm looking for Jeffrey Pond." He pauses, tucking a stray hair behind his ear. His eyes linger on the balcony behind James, on the empty shelf above the telly, before meeting his own. "I'm part of the accountancy company he's been working with." 

James tries not to look too relieved but, Merlin, it feels as if the tight ball of bundled nerves building behind his lungs is finally loosening. Because that is what they say, in the club. Those who work there. He remembers Gibson telling him this back when he signed the extended contract. It's what escorts are supposed to say when they're not sure they're in the right place. 

"It's just my fake name," he says. It's not like he'd give the real one, one never knows when these things come out in papers.

"Oh..." For a tiny second, Scorpius' eyes widen almost desperately. 

James waits, he just waits and looks down into silver eyes completely unreadable. He's kind of expecting Scorpius' following words to be a quip, some kind of a pun,  _ Funny, Potter. So, what, you just looked up names that began with your initials? _ It'd be deserved, in fact---he'd been drunk out of his mind the first time he called them. 

It feels like an eternity before Scorpius lifts one shoulder, his face turning back into the mask he wore when James opened the door. "I see," he says, and he looks pleasant, amiable. "Could I come in?" 

He looks  _ bland _ . 

Somehow, James truly doesn't like that---that look on him. It's as if he's so used to this job that he just pretends it's all fine. He hasn't even asked James how come he's seeing prostitutes---male prostitutes---while having a girlfriend and being public about her. And he does know James has a girlfriend. He's seen her before, for Godric's sake... even if he hadn't, there are plenty articles about them on the  _ Prophet _ 's gossip pages. But somehow Scorpius takes all this as everyday business. As if it's most of what his clients do.

Still, James steps back, holding out an arm for Scorpius to pass. 

"Sure," he says, and Scorpius says, "Thank you," formally, a slight nod of his head like Martin did---like all other escorts do when greeting clients. As if this whole situation is completely normal to him.

James figures it might be. Normal. Aside from finding out Scorpius is somehow a Muggle prostitute, and finding him actually  _ acting like _ one which is, honestly, massively weird. Especially when James remembers him from school. 

He was quiet, back then; quieter even after the Christmas incident with Lorcan. Scorpius was, in all truth, nothing but a complete nerd---albeit a pretty handsome one too, often featured prominently in James' wet dreams. But even if James had been out back then---which he wasn't, he still isn't---he doubts he'd have gone after him. 

Sure, he might have hoped to do him once or twice, but Scorpius was one of those posh boys from pure-blood families'. He was cold, distant---his dad's family were Death Eaters, weren't they? 

He might have been Al's best friend, indeed, but in James' book all Scorpius deserved was to be sneered at. The way he acted back then, always looking at everyone over his shoulder. It was disgusting. 

But perhaps he can work with this, he thinks, as his lips turn upwards. Scorpius, the Muggle escort. It's not exactly horrible. It's just something he wasn't expecting, that's all, although certainly amusing considering how obsessed he's been with Scorpius. In the end, it turns out all he had to do to have him at his beck and call was calling Gibson and asking for a different escort.

"Please," he tells Scorpius, lifting an arm and signalling randomly towards the back of the room where couches are, "get comfortable." 

The silence goes on, numbingly, while Scorpius does that. He turns to James then, as if expecting him to say something else, so James asks, "D'you want a drink? I have, er, whisky, though not the Fire one I'm afraid."

"No, thanks." Scorpius shakes his head. "I don't mind you drinking, though."

A wandering wisp of blond hair falls over his forehead. James itches to be the one pushing it back this time---but he doesn't. He remains sitting instead, across the room from him. "They told me they were sending some Russian bloke..."

"I'm their Russian---" Scorpius' lips curve into an ironic smirk as he says the word, " _ \---bloke _ . At least that's what I told them."

James snorts. "And they bought it?"

"Why wouldn't they?" Scorpius shrugs, tries a brief smile. "I'm no one to them."

James hums, pouring himself a glass of whisky. Seriously, Muggles...  

"I lack papers. Both my parents were Purebloods, it's not---in the Muggle world, I'm not even a British citizen. I don't exist," Scorpius says. James swallows hard, his throat burning from the alcohol. He'd never thought about that, but it's true. "And Father has been having trouble paying..."

"Paying what?" James asks, only then he recalls they used to go to school together. That this person here is his brother's best friend. That his parents know him, that he's here to... well, to shag or, rather, get shagged, and he tries to stop the thoughts from rushing in but, bloody hell, it's rather hard to keep up this façade of nonchalance when he's struggling with his memories. 

"...nothing," Scorpius finishes. "Hardly matters," and James frowns, sceptically. 

He's not sure what's made Scorpius look like he's been slapped. What does his father have to pay for, anyway? He goes back through his memories---isn't Malfoy senior rich or something? His dad used to mention that. And the clothes Scorpius wears nowadays... one thing is certain about them, they're certainly not cheap.

"You're reading Poe?"

"What?" James asks, pulled out of his thoughts. 

Scorpius points towards the book, lying abandoned on the table. "Edgar Allan Poe. The Muggle writer."

"Oh, that... no, not really. I just borrowed it from---"  _ my girlfriend's library _ , "---someone. They... have a great collection of Muggle classics." He's on the verge of asking how come Scorpius knows who that is, given that his family was more on the track of killing them all, when Scorpius says, "Al really liked him, back in fourth year," and, well... 

If Al is involved there, it all makes sense.

"He loved  _ The Raven _ ," Scorpius says. "It's a narrative poem. He used to read it out loud at night---" he grins, "---likely because it scared me half to death. It was beautiful though." He stands, unbuttoning the first few buttons on his shirt. He stretches then, his collarbone deliberately on display to James' gaze. "I still remember bits of it."

James' eyes slide up his chest, over his neck, and he lays back on the couch hoping to enjoy the show. "Bits of it, huh?"

" _ 'Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,' _ " Scorpius recites, while slowly walking around the room. "That's how it began. The crow keeps saying 'nevermore' from then on, on the last line of each stanza---" 

"---last line of what?"

"Stanza." 

"What's that?" 

"It's like... the structure of a poem. The parts you divide it into, usually two or more verses---to make rhymes and length match, mostly." Scorpius looks gorgeous like this, lying back against the table, his knees on either side of James' legs, almost---but not quite---touching him. "Anyway, it's what the craw keeps saying that presses the young man---it's written in first person, the poem---to keep remembering the love of his life, a woman called Lenore."

His eyelashes are slightly darker than his hair; they look stunning on the pale skin of his face, whenever he blinks, looks down... 

James swirls the liquid in his glass, pointedly not picturing how those lips would look when he slides his prick over them. Not that it matters much, what he's thinking; his cock seems to have a life of its own, already hard and pressing against his trousers.

"Only Lenore is not there anymore." Scorpius leans forwards, until James can feel his warm breath on his cheek. He whispers, "Do you want to know why?"

"Do tell," James says, his voice coming out much lower than it usually is.

"Lenore is..." his lips brush against James' neck while he speaks, "... dead." 

He pulls back then. It takes James a few minutes to catch his breath, an undeniable rush of blood to his groin after having Scorpius' neck so close to his face. He feels a bit flushed. He's got no idea how  _ anyone  _ could talk about death and make it sound sexy of all things. But that's what Scorpius just did.

Who knows, perhaps that's what they teach in Slytherin...

"I was never a huge fan of poems, myself. I quite liked his short tales:  _ The Fall of the House of Usher _ ,  _ The Black Cat _ , et caetera..." One side of Scorpius' mouth lifts up. "I honestly couldn't sleep after reading them." He pauses, shivering. "Terrible, terrible nightmares, that." 

"Why read them, then?"

Scorpius shrugs. "They were beautiful. Well-written, too, and I loved the structure of his stories," he says, looking down as he picks up the novel from the table. "Then again, I suppose that's what I like about stories, especially with Gothic fiction, or Gothic horror... I love the way they're written. Everything one's told is put in doubt, because one can only  _ guess  _ how much of what he's being told is true. Take characters, for instance---are they sane? Because that's not always the case, but you keep reading, and at some point your start to wonder about their balance because some of their thoughts are... odd. And that makes you wonder if what they saw through the window was truly an evil ghost, or if, perhaps, it was just the long shadow of an umbrella and so on." 

James looks at him, already scrambling through his novel as though every word in there is extremely interesting. He remembers the cautious look Scorpius gave him at the party. It's like he's two different people: one for outsiders, a different one for those in his circle. 

Except James is not part of his circle---wouldn't want to be---so he clear his throat. "I guess you'll never know."

"Exactly," Scorpius says, both hands flying up. He truly has smooth complexion. "But that's what makes them beautiful." 

James shrugs. "I didn't get to read much, to be honest. I had only just begun when you got here..."

Scorpius blinks, stares at him. "I... yes. Sorry. You're right." He finally rests the book on the table. "You only hired me for two hours, maybe we should..." his eyes flicker down to his hands before going back to James'. He licks his lips. "How do you want me?" 

_ How do you want me?  _ Such a lame phrase. But then James thinks about Albus reading Poe at night, he thinks about not knowing anything about that, about Scorpius knowing it, knowing his brother liked Poe even though James didn't... 

For a moment there, he's not entirely sure he should be doing this at all. Not to Al's best friend. Merlin, does Al even know about Scorpius' job? He can't. He didn't seem to, on the birthday party... 

But then, this is his night off, and Scorpius has always been a bit of a jerk. An extremely good-looking jerk, mind you, but still a jerk, like earlier tonight, when he started talking about his family and suddenly pulled back---seriously, what was that about? He thinks of him at school. Always smirking as if he thought he was somehow better than James, better than everyone else, so he gestures towards the bed. 

"Let's move over there."

Scorpius stands up then, taking off his jacket. His face goes back to peasantly bland as he undoes the few buttons still done up on his dress shirt. He pushes it off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. 

James truly hates that look on him, but then his eyes stray over Scorpius' chest, down towards his hip bones. He's thin, but there's muscle behind skin, so at least that wasn't just an impression created by clever tailoring. He moves well, too, so marvellously well that James only gets up, leaving his glass on the small table, when Scorpius is waiting for him on the bed.

He sits down next to him, their legs really touching now. James is starting to feel almost comfortable when they kiss, pushing back all thoughts about Al. He turns towards Scorpius; leans in, pushing him back onto the bed. 

"You like this?"

Scorpius nods. Says, "Sure. It's fine," and James reaches for him, a gentle touch on his chest, on his lap, unzipping the trousers Scorpius' still wearing. 

Scorpius' lips are soft, gentle. James lets his eyes fall shut and pushes his groin into Scorpius'. It's a bit different from kissing Martin. Tender, slightly hesitant, and James likes that. He likes that it feels different, that this is actually _Scorpius_ and not the escort he's been pretending to be. There's a flick of tongue against James' upper lip, licking gently when James gives. He figures Scorpius is just testing the waters---this is new to him, as well---but then there are fingers in James' hair, pulling slightly so he turns his head sideways and that's confusing, wrong. That's... too much. It feels as if they're fumbling teenagers trying to figure out how to make out, and James doesn't want, doesn't _need_ bloody coaxing, so he grabs Scorpius' wrist and pushes it down onto the bed. He holds it there, pressed against the sheets. 

Scorpius is looking at him, flushed and questioning. James sees him flinch. His eyes are wide, startled, going from James' face to his wrist caught in James' hand and back. 

_ Yes _ , James thinks,  _ exactly like this _ , and he presses harder when Scorpius tries to move. 

_ Let him learn his place.  _

He's not in control here. 

He shifts, touching Scorpius' darkened mouth with his fingers before cupping the side of his face. "You look good like this," he says, because James is the one who gets to make decisions here, not Scorpius. He's the one who's paid for this, not Scorpius, so he turns the kiss deeper, pushes back Scorpius' tongue with his own.

Oddly enough, Scorpius doesn't even try to fight him. Not even when James' hands pulls his trousers off---off his thighs, off  _ him. _ Honestly, it doesn't get plainer than that, what James wants, where this is going. And if James' hands hold on to Scorpius wrist a tiny bit longer than necessary, that's just because he doesn't want Scorpius to misjudge him. 

Not again. 

It's not because James likes holding people down. It's not because it's Scorpius lying there, it's not; James has never been that way, not into bondage or anything. Only, this is Malfoy, and he clearly doesn't know where he stands.

He skims his other hand up Scorpius' chest, fingers around Scorpius' neck. Lazy, but tight enough to catch Scorpius' contained intake of breath when he feels James' still clothed cock poke him between his legs. It's tight enough to feel him swallow. 

"You look perfect like this..." Scorpius is warm up there, in the curve of his neck, even against James' lips. One lick and Scorpius obediently bends his head back, further. Another one and there's a little gasp that goes straight to James' prick. "... like a little slut who loves doing their job, a little slut for me to use..." 

He can feel Scorpius tensing up as he mouths the words into his skin, and he  _ likes  _ that. And when he presses his tongue again against warm skin, James realises this, here, is what he wants. The feeling he gets off this. Scorpius giving up, letting him get away with anything---because it's not his place to complain, is it?

He takes Scorpius other wrist, pressing both slightly harder into the mattress above his head before letting them go. It's all it takes. Scorpius seems to get it now. He stays still, legs falling wide open while James undoes his own trousers, and that's good. That's great. That's what James wanted, cease opposition, except... "For fuck's sake, are you always this bloody quiet during sex?" 

"I... no." Scorpius lowers his eyes, just a blink. "Not always." His lips part, as if he's willing to add something else, but he doesn't. 

He just lies there, frozen, and James has to wonder how on Earth did he manage to get hired as an escort---judging by the way he's acting right now, he doesn't seem all that into it, though perhaps he played his previous act for them too.  _ Scorpius, the Muggle Whore, Part One _ . But he thinks, _ Fine _ . It looks like that, too, rests on him, pretty much like everything else in his life. They'll just do it his way, then. 

"Ask me to fuck you," he orders, stepping closer between Scorpius' legs, until the tip of his hard cock is brushing over Scorpius' entrance. 

"No,  _ wait _ , there are---" Scorpius goes tense when James does it again, his prick sliding against Scorpius' tight rim, "---condoms in my suitcase."

James raises his eyebrows, but he summons his wand from the closet and casts a protective charm on both of them. "Happy?"

"There's... also lube in there..."

"And you think you'd need  _ lube _ ?" James finger strokes along the rough line of Scorpius' rim. "It's funny---" he says, pushing his finger inside, he slides it out and in until it brushes against Scorpius' prostate. Scorpius' breath catches as his cock fills, "---because I think you're already wet enough. I think I could shove my prick inside you right now and you'd bloody love it."

Scorpius looks away, his eyes fixating on the wall beside the headboard. 

"In fact---" he bends closer, until he's whispering in Scorpius' ear, "---you'd be eager to get more of me inside you, inside your tight little arse." He's still pumping his finger. Scorpius is so wet around it. "More and more, like the slut you are, until it's loose enough to fit a---"

"I'm not like---"

"---that?" James slides his finger out, tugging against his rim. The next time he pushes in is with two fingers, it makes Scorpius shiver slightly, and frankly, what he said, it's... "Fucking hilarious. A whore telling me he's not paid to do as I say." 

When he pulls back up, Scorpius' eyes have fallen shut, his breathing arrhythmic as James keeps fingering him, his cock pink and weeping. 

"We need to talk about it first, it's not---" 

"So talk," James says, "ask me to fuck you. Tell me you like it hard."

He sees Scorpius swallow a couple times, his muscles rigid beneath his hands. For a moment there James thinks this is it, any moment now Scorpius is going to get up and leave---laughable, really, considering who he is. 

But Scorpius doesn't. He ends up mumbling, "Please, fuck me, sir---" and, no. 

Not that. Where the hell did that 'sir' come from?

"Don't go 'sir' on me, you know my name." James pushes back a strand of blond fringe from Scorpius' face, his thumb tracing over skin. The hair feels great under his thumb, and nicer still when he tightens his grip. "And fucking  _ look _ \---" his fingers twist inside Scorpius, the tips brushing over his prostate on each inner press, "--- _ at me  _ when you say it."

There's a startled blink, a bit of resistance, but then Scorpius mumbles, "Please, fuck me---" he pauses, biting his lip, "---James." There's a subtle crack to his voice, trembling slightly on the last word.

"Better." But not good enough. Not nearly as brilliant as all this was in James' mind. "Keep going," James adds, as he removes his fingers and sinks his prick in, slowly. It's wonderfully warm all around him, like a hot iron embracing his cock. It takes him a while to keep still, to not pull out and push back in, but he manages. There's a stumbled groan in his own voice, and he orders Scorpius, "Keep talking." 

"Fuck me hard. I like it when you fuck me hard, like I'm your..." There's a hitch when he starts moving inside Scorpius, but even that looks good on him. He looks gorgeous, lying there: hands still over his head, unmoved, fast breathing and warm skin. "... your bitch. I like the---the way your cock moves inside me, so fast and---"

His words cause a shiver of desire to slither up James' spine. 

This definitely works better, better than all that crap Scorpius was doing, better than how they started. Not too much, not too little, and Scorpius feels  _ alive  _ beneath James. Not like another one of the whores he's paying for. And James likes that. He likes fucking him like this. He likes feeling close up, loves being able to lean forward, running his hand over Scorpius' chest all the way up to his neck, pushing his shoulders down in time with his thrusts. 

It makes Scorpius tense up all around him. That's perfect---more friction on his cock.

"It feels---ahhh---you're so huge, so big in me," Scorpius adds, and that's all right, that's fine, and James' mind echoes still,  _ Let him learn his place _ . A Death Eater's son, a Slytherin, a filthy slut for Muggles to shag. A filthy slut for him tonight. 

Let him learn his place. 

And he's so, so damned close he can feel his inner muscles clutching, building. His teeth close around Scorpius' neck---a muttered cry into his skin---and he's done. He's coming. And everything around him is a blur. Obscured by the edges, melting down.

He doesn't even care if Scorpius came or not.

He lies on the hotel's bed, afterwards, as Scorpius gets dressed. He's awfully quiet, again, but James no longer gives a damn about what he does or doesn't do. 

Let him be quiet if that's what he likes.

Honestly, the world could be crumbling outside and James still wouldn't care. He feels great, fantastic, as if the mist of troubles and trials he'd been carrying around all month vanished into nothing, at least until Scorpius pauses by the door. 

"Don't tell Al." Scorpius' back looks strained. He's got one hand on the handle, the other one hanging down. Clasped, edgy, tight edges on the sides of his mouth when he looks back. "Don't tell him what I do for a living." 

James snorts. As if. He's not going to tell his brother he's been seeing a prostitute---a  _ male  _ prostitute, at that---and that said prostitute just happened to be his brother's bloody best friend.

Scorpius turns around, lying back against the door. It seems to take him an awfully long time to get there, but he finally adds, "Please." 

"Sure." James shrugs. "I won't."

 

*** ***

 

Scorpius isn't sure how he gets home. 

He knows these walls though---wallpaper wrapped shabbily all over them, appalling Victorian flowers intertwining where it's not yet peeled off. First floor. If he climbs up two floors he'll be home. He's holding his wand, so somehow his benumbed mind must have driven him to the Apparition point. It must have drifted through his suitcase until he found it. In his suitcase. The one James... 

He can't believe what happened, up in that hotel room. 

He can't believe he slept with Al's brother, spread his legs for him, and James wanted to... he held him down, Merlin. Pressed his hands into the mattress, as if Scorpius didn't already know what James thinks of him, what he's always thought. The things he said, the things he made him say... 

Scorpius flinches a bit when he touches the coloured spot between his neck and shoulder, where James' teeth latched hard as he came. What is he going to tell Al the next time they meet? What if  _ James _ is there too? 

Humiliation piles up inside his chest until it gets harder and harder to breathe. He feels sick thinking about it, about what he's done. He should have fled when he first saw James, but then he'd be in trouble at work, trouble with Gibson. She's just hired him. It wouldn't look good. It's likely better not to go to her with this, especially since he can't truly explain to her...  

He breathes in once, twice, deeply.  _ Think positive thoughts _ , he tells himself. 

This is not like Lorcan. It's not meant to put him down. James was just... an arsehole. As usual. And he's still whole, after all, and isn't that a marvel? Somehow he hasn't splinched himself getting here, so he wraps his arms around himself as he walks upstairs. 

There's a chill in the air. He guesses winter's coming.

He still misses the Manor, sometimes. It was never cold in the gardens, the air charmed to keep a pleasant temperature all through the year. But what's been done can't be undone. 

Father is asleep when he gets home, his cheek lying on one of the books he's been reading lately. He's come up with a few great potions in the past years; Scorpius particularly loved the one that let werewolves retain their human shape while transformed. In any case, it's not likely the Ministry would buy them. They won't even buy his recipes; the Ministry, for the most part, prefers to stay unrelated to former Death Eaters, especially those were it's not hush-hush rumours of having helped this or that person during the war. 

Especially those wearing Voldemort's hideous brand on their arm. Such as Father.

He pours himself some tea, in the kitchen. It's still warm, and for a moment there he's so glad Father remembered to place warming charm on the teapot. Then, he grabs a blanket from their sofa and pulls it around Father's shoulders, making sure they're covered everywhere that matters. 

His dad stirs a little. Peeks up at him, sleepily. "Time is it?"

"Awfully late." 

Father's eyes move down to his neck. A tiny crease of worry appears between his eyebrows.

"I'm going to take a bath," Scorpius says, before questions are asked. He's never been too good at lying, not to Father. He is pretty sure his dad knows something's not quite right, that he wonders where all his money is coming from, but so far he hasn't asked. 

Frankly, Scorpius hopes he won't. Ever.

He feels filthy, as if he could scrub his skin forever and never get clean. He truly hopes James won't call for him again. It's not like it's bad to have weekly clients, it'd make his boss happy, at least---more business for her. And to be truthful, it's almost a relief for him to know beforehand what he's into for the day. He just doesn't want James to be one of them. 

He isn't keen on the dirty talk James seemed to be into and, honestly, most of his clients won't treat him like he's a two cent  _ whore _ . And he definitely doesn't do bondage, which seemed to be where James was headed... 

He guesses he'd get paid more if he did, but just thinking about it scares him half to death. He's a Malfoy. 

He knows what most wizards think of him.  _ Death Eater scum _ , he hears them say whenever he goes to Diagon. Apparently, they all know who he's supposed to be far too well, nevermind that it's never fit reality. Joke as it is, he's only doing this job because they wouldn't hire him elsewhere, even though he got Outstanding in most of his N.E.W.T.s. More than a bunch of them would be willing to tie him up. 

He knows that. 

What truly worries him though is he's not sure he'd be left alive. 

He figured, when he went to the interview with Gibson, that perhaps it might be simpler with Muggles.  _ Not like all Muggles can be insane bastards after all _ , he thought back then. But as it turns out, he doesn't only get Muggles, he also gets James fucking Potter, the Falcon's champion; a wizard, and not any of them. Harry Potter's son. Known by everyone in the magical community just because of what his father did during the war. 

Just thinking about him makes Scorpius cover his mouth with both hands because, Merlin's tits, he's just realised he actually knows James' girlfriend. She used to be in the class above him. She saw her briefly at Al's birthday.

He guesses he could have said 'no.' They've talked about it, Gibson and him. She did tell him to report appointments gone wrong, that that's the rule. He's done it before and she's been nice to him, but with this one... 

It just  _ felt  _ like it, but he wouldn't even know how to explain it to her. It just rubbed his wrong foot from the start, that James held his hands there, the way he looked at him, called him a whore,  _ his  _ whore... 

Scorpius shivers. He splashes water on his face and looks at the mirror. 

His hands are shaking. Still.

How do you, indeed, explain that, when after he's bathed and changed into pyjamas he still doesn't have the slightest clue of what on Earth went on back there. 

It doesn't even occur to him while he's spelling his hair dry. Not a clue, other than James is freaking mad---but it's not like his boss would buy that, is it? Once he gets there, though, he needs to push his mind backwards. Stop thinking. He honestly doesn't want yet another memory replay, and he needs to sleep. 

He has to. 

Only, you can't do that if you keep remembering.

 

*** ***

 

_ True to his word, Scorpius didn't think about it that night. He didn't think about it the morning after, or even the following night, when he had a different client to attend to. Eventually, though, he started tapping down his foot, counting down his steps. Watching hours pass by. He decided to let the memory run, just a bit, just the beginning---how it started, what they did... _

_ His heart started racing when it got to that moment. The pressure on his wrists, the look James gave him.  _ Stay right there _ , it seemed to say. _

Whore, _ it seemed to say. _

_ And that didn't sit well with him. _


	3. 03.

"Sorry," Scorpius says, a half-smile already playing on his lips. He likes Martin, but they don't see each other much. "I didn't know... there's normally no one here when I drop by."

"You're in early, I'm out late," Martin says, squirming to sit upright against the arm of the couch, legs folded neatly beneath him. "Had Williams last night so---" he chuckles, "---you know how he gets, full night and whatnot..." 

"Overtiming, then?"

"Sadly," Martin mutters under his breath. "But, at least I get payed for it. By the way, boss wants to see you in her office. She came by a few minutes ago, told her I'd let you know if I was still here." He shrugs, then. "Turns out I am."

"Bummer. Did she say why?" She never calls them into her office, not unless some of the customers have placed complaints about them or something... 

Martin flashes him a real smile. "Not really." 

Scorpius pulls a pack of Camel from his jacket pocket. He lights one, takes a deep drag. Perhaps James did call to complain? Except, he can't have. He didn't really give him any reason to complain... did he?

"Relax, you dolt," Martin says. He pats the couch next to his feet, inviting him to sit. "It's probably nothing."

Scorpius rolls his eyes. "I swear you look about six whenever you do that... that thing you do with your hand."

"For all the good that's gonna do..."  

"Hey," he says, pretending this is totally normal, that he usually goes around asking other people who they've fucked, "wasn't Pond one of your clients?"

Martin nods. "On Saturday nights. Oddly enough he never called last week," he says, "so my appointment got cancelled---all the better though, I got to spend the night home." He looks up, regarding him with friendly interest. "How come you're asking about him?"

"Nothing," Scorpius says quickly. Then, he decides to amend himself, "He was with me, last week---I mean, last Friday."

Martin snorts, then tries to pretend he'd been coughing. "Gibson likely offered him a new one, 'Please, sir, take a look through our online catalogue and pick the one you like best.'"

Somehow, he doubts James ever saw his pictures---he looked so shocked when he first saw Scorpius standing by his door---but still, he shrugs. "She might have." 

"That cunt. Can I bum a fag, mate?" 

When Scorpius offers him one, Martin looks at the wrapper. "Not Marlboros anymore, huh?" 

"Too expensive. I bought these off the Polish girl down the street. Can't remember her name, but she's nice," Scorpius mumbles. 

"Zofia," Fen's voice comes over the back of the leather couch where they're both sprawled, it makes Martin startle and go, "Christ! You scared the hell out of me..."

Scorpius slopes closer to him. He doesn't want any of the others listening to what he's going to say. "Listen," he whispers, faint in Martin's ear, "was he ever kind of---" he pauses, trying to come up with a way to frame this that won't seem too straightforward for him, too blunt, "---pushy?"

Martin coughs up smoke and lowers the cigarette. He watches Fen leaving the room before meeting Scorpius' eyes. "We're still talking about Jeffrey Pond here, yeah?"  

"Yes. Did he ever try to," he knows he is blushing, but he may as well go ahead and say it before he decides it's too much, "make you say dirty stuff while he, you know, or call you a whore..."

There's a brief silence. An odd moment when Martin stares at him, as if he suspects Scorpius is in on some kind of joke he's not been told of. "Pond," he says, slowly, "really?" 

Scorpius nods tightly, and Martin seems to settle for a baffled frown. 

"God, no." He laughs. "Never. He was always extremely respectful to me," and something in his tone makes Scorpius think that he wouldn't put up with people who made up such babble. Something tells him Martin actually  _ likes  _ the Gryffindor creep after all. 

Merlin.

"He's basically as vanilla as they come, that one."

"All right," Scorpius says, because... sure, okay, if he says so, but. "That's... that's good to know, I guess. But, you know, if he ever wanted to---I don't know, do any of those things---would you go along with it?" 

Martin seems to have a hard time coming up with that mental image, but he ends up raising one shoulder, slightly. "Sure. Why not? He's a nice guy. Besides he knows the rules: you say don't, he stops." He shakes his head with a small laugh, all while Scorpius thinks he kind of did say 'don't'---perhaps not in those words but, even for James, it must have been obvious---and James ignored him. "Trust me, though. It's truly not his scene."

Uh-huh. Truly not his scene, completely vanilla, a nice guy. Scorpius nods. "Well, thank you, that has been---" one of the most ludicrous statements he's heard in his life, "---extremely helpful." Obviously, it doesn't come out as convincing as he thinks it does, because Martin gives him yet another searching look. Thankfully, he's far too tactful to ask, so Scorpius gets up and puts out his cigarette in the ashtray. He even manages a sort of thankful smile while saying, "I'll go see what Gibson wants."

His hands are sweating as he climbs up the stairs. He stops in front of the office, running a hand through his hair. 

Why did Gibson ask to see him? It just... Somehow, this doesn't feel right either. He's getting the same kind of feeling he got back then, at the hotel, when James opened the door and claimed it was his fake name and Scorpius didn't leave. Scorpius  _ stayed  _ and things went to hell and back and some more. Then again, Gibson's not like that. Like James. She thought Scorpius had potential when he came to the interview.

He knocks on the door, lightly. 

Though perhaps since then she's changed her mind.

He's called in a moment later---"Sergei? Is that you?"---and Gibson sets her tea mug down on the desk when he steps inside. She leans back comfortably on her chair, glancing at him. Judging by the look on her face, Scorpius is not quite sure if this will be good or bad for him---for a moment there, he thinks of Martin; Gibson does rather like scolding escorts.

"Look at you," she says, seeming extremely pleased with herself, "not even four months working here and you already have a weekly client."

"Do I?" He wonders. Addington, maybe?

"Indeed."

He stops a few inches from her desk. 

"Pond called earlier," she entrusts him. "I suppose your last appointment went well..." 

Scorpius' tongue drags against his bottom lip. 

Honestly, to this day, he can't still fully explain how much he hated their last appointment. How wretchedly gross it left him feel, how, no matter how many times he showered afterwards, he can still feel grime crawling over his skin whenever he thinks about it. He can still hear James voice--- _ you'd love it, like the slut you are _ \---saying that as if that was the lowest one could sink.

In the end, he decides to stay quiet. He knows getting mad in front of her is going to do him no good. He's not sure he can talk about it, or even  _ how to _ \---James didn't do anything wrong, he just... rubbed him the wrong way. 

Said the wrong things. 

Made Scorpius say the wrong things, too.

"He's requested you every Saturday night from now on. Full night, too, dinner included, but from what he said you won't be going anywhere," she says. "I guess you can wear whatever you like, as long as you look... adequately presentable." 

He stands there, in a daze, trying to make sense of what she's telling him while she looks him up and down. That's the deal Martin had. 

Her eyes briefly pin on his jacket. "You should wear grey more often, it makes your eyes stand out," she adds, with unrestrained camaraderie. 

As if he didn't know that. 

Eventually, she gets bored of waiting for him to react and carries on, "That's actually why I called you up here. I need you to look through his contract, we've extended it with revelation clauses assuring him we'll keep his business with us private."   

He nods, biting down the slew of assertive retorts currently sitting on his tongue. 

"Read through it." She slides a stack of papers towards him. "It basically says you can't go to the press, leak photographs and so on. Then again, that's also included in our original contract, this one is just more, how to say, precise."

"I see." Precise. Like James wanting him to stay put. Like James wanting him to talk shit about himself while he fucked him. That precise. 

"It mentions things like you can't greet him if you see him elsewhere, stuff like that," she says, still all pleased and friendly. "Who knows why he'd want that, I don't even know who he is..."

_ Well, he's quite huge among wizards _ , Scorpius thinks.  _ One of the Falcon's Beaters, nonetheless _ , and by that point he really wants to tell her that James is actually his best friend's brother, and how can he remain anywhere  _ close  _ to his contract while ignoring him whenever he sees him. He recalls, then, that they've never talked much, that most of his friends aren't wizards. Perhaps it won't be that big of a change. 

"I need you to sign down here," she mentions, tapping the bottom part on the last piece of paper. 

Scorpius grabs the pen she's offering him and blindly drafts his signature onto the line her finger points to. This is it, then. Every weekend from now on, until whenever James gets bored and moves on. 

Merlin, he really should have left when James saw him. Whatever sanction Gibson might have put him through would have been much better than this.

"Are you all right? Your hands..."

He looks down at them. They're shaking, like whenever he thinks about that night, about James. 

"I'm fine," he hears himself say. 

"Are you sure?"

Upon further consideration, he decides to stuff his hands in his pockets. "Yes. This is just..." His voice comes out too low. He clears his throat and tries again, "I wasn't expecting---" not today, not  _ him _ , "---this," he finishes, while the floor turns blurry and faint under his feet.

She hums, nodding slowly. "Well, I guess it's normal for you to be nervous. I suppose this is still new to you." She smiles, benevolently. "Look on the bright side though, extended contracts pay way better than our average ones."

The sad thing is, he can't even tell her why this whole thing is a terribly bad idea. Because he truly needs this job. Because if he ever gets sacked, it'll take him ages to get a new one. Because he needs the money they pay to cover up Father's post-war fines, Mother's monthly stipends after their divorce... 

Because it would be a breach in the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, and one thing is sure, Scorpius really, really doesn't want anymore issues involving Aurors or Ministry of Magic personnel---it's bad enough that they drop by every month, or whenever any of his neighbours complain about noise.

He notices Gibson looking at him expectantly. "Thank you," he muddles after a moment, glad he at least still remembers the words, "if that's all then..."  

"Sure," she says, "I know I can count on you," and looking contented enough, she turns back to her computer. "Well, then. Go do your thing," and Scorpius feels oddly dismissed as he leaves.

He gets out from Taylor's appointment before the clock hits half past seven. He looks around the road once he leaves the hotel; it's still early, despite Scorpius stifling yawns all through his date with Taylor. It's not like it's truly his fault. The man just wants someone to listen to him, and his job must be awfully boring. Frankly, selling high stocks to rich people here and there isn't something Scorpius considers a merry go round---but then, Scorpius current job doesn't even rate that high either.

It's so close to Masala he decides to drop by. Hashanti works there now, certainly a huge step up from the filthy pub where he met her, and they must be locking up soon. Perhaps they can go for a drink at Soho. Eat tapas somewhere. 

Hashanti is still cleaning up the last few plates by the time he gets there. When he offers to help, she tells him to sit back and enjoy his drink---"Free, on the house!"---and then asks him to lift his feet while she's passing the mop underneath him. 

"God... this is delicious," he says.

"I know! Daber shorbot. It's got coconut in it." 

He pulls one leg under himself, smiling an apology when his foot bumps against her knee. "I don't know what it has, but it tastes amazing." 

They end up talking and talking, and there's laughter as they wash down leftovers of tikka masala along with naan and samosa, and a massive fight with clinking spoons when she tries to poke him in the side. He's quiet, afterwards, when they lie down by the table. Her head is resting on his shoulder when she says, "You looked sad when you got here."

He picks at the gajar ki burfi lying between them---carrot with a very slight hint of lemon. Delightful. "You need to give me the recipe for this..."

"Don't change the topic," she says, slapping her hand on his arm. "Talk to me. How was work this week?"

Something in him curls uneasily when he thinks of next Saturday, of meeting up with James, but all he says is, "Fine. I had this fellow, this afternoon... he likes to talk about work sometimes, get things off his chest. It gets really boring after a while." 

She nods and doesn't ask again, but still it feels good to be able to talk to someone about his job---someone who won't judge him. Even if he can't give names, or point at the telly and say,  _ You see that guy there, the one in the background on that Dr Pepper commercial? Well, he dropped by the other day. _

She's the only one who knows, outside his job. The only one he's told. 

And she only knows because of a huge slip up on his side. 

Scorpius got massively drunk after the first time he had to split his legs for money that he may have mumbled far more than he usually says. She was nice to him, even back then. She understood his position in all this, even though she's a Muggle and half of what he said about paying fines for a war---a war he didn't take place on since he wasn't even born by then---may have gone over her head.

He walks her home before Apparating to Knockturn Alley, a warm Tupperware of tandoori chicken stuck under his arm. A tiny Kneazle walks along him all the way to his building. It's dotted black on white---looks a lot like his Patronus. It pauses and looks up at him, straying its head to the side when he taps open the door to his building. Scorpius crouches down, slowly reaching out a hand until he's scratching its speckled fur behind one ear. "What's up with you?" 

The Kneazle purrs. 

"Do you want to come in? It must be freezing here at night." 

It moves closer to him then. That's when Scorpius notices the limping. The Kneazle walks slowly over the cobblestones on the road, never really pressing one of its back paws. "Are you hurt?" he asks. "Well, that makes two of us..."

He feels a bit silly, talking to a random animal in the middle of the street. He glances cautiously around him but, luckily, the place seems to be empty. He doesn't have a licence to keep a Kneazle, but it keeps purring and purring---he could try to heal it and then let it go; the Aurors won't come by for another two weeks, unless some of their neighbours places yet another complaint against them. 

He leaves the Tupperware on the ground, and gently lifts the Kneazle until he's holding it against his chest, saying 'shhh' when it opens its mouth to meow. "So you're a female, aren't you?" He taps his wand on the Tupperware then, and starts to climb up the stairs. "Let's see if we can heal your paw."

He could always hide her if they come, the Aurors, and hope she won't meow too loud. 

 

*** ***

 

_ I do have to tell you though, this wasn't exactly the best time of his life. Despite all those happy careless moments he lived as he kept going here and there all week, he kept thinking thinking thinking, thinking about what the weekend would bring.  _

_ Scorpius' whole world was sinking down into the vast jaws of destruction, but by the time Saturday got there he was trying to be, dare I say, almost positive. _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! ♥ If you ever want to reach me or stay up with my updates, I'm [thisbloodycat](http://thisbloodycat.tumblr.com/)@tumblr :)


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